Good. I don’t need him around. I haven’t spoken to him since before he cut off my credit cards. His debit card is still working for me, but it’s only a matterof time before he notices and reports it lost or stolen, effectively leaving me incapable of affording . . . well, anything.
I’ve therefore concluded I need this job. Father knows my capabilities. He knows my many, many, many limitations. Surely he wouldn’t put me in a position I couldn’t handle.
Of course not. That would be so stupid.
It’ll be something easy like choosing colours for the conference room, or inventing new plans for work socials, or booking spa experiences for the overworked staff to unwind with.
I walk through the front doors at eight fifty-seven, feeling smug as shit that for once in my life I’m actually early for something. The rest of these office dwellers better notice the efforts I’m going to here. Thankfully, the inside of the lobby has a much more pleasant atmosphere than the exterior. Even if it is all gaudy, sterile, faux grey marble without a shred of personality, at least there are no portable urinals littering the floor or murder birds decrying my lack of pastry goods.
Two security guards sit behind a desk, one a shiny-headed Black guy and a white woman with a brown bun and shoulders so broad I’m certain she has to turn sideways to fit through doors. They look up from the paperwork they’re discussing and do a double take when they see me.
“Orlando? Orlando Oakham?” Miss Trunchbull says. Her voice is softer and more feminine than I expected, though her Westcountry accent is thick—heavy on the Rs—and it makes me smile.
“Oakham-Goodwin,” I correct instinctively. People always forget—or choose to exclude—my mother’s name.
“Do you know where you’re going?” she asks.
“I’ve never been here before.” I haven’t been told anything other than to arrive at nine. No name to ask for, no clue what this interview will involve.
Miss Trunchbull hops out of her seat. “No problem. I’ll take you up.” She zips out from behind the desk and stands beside me. “From tomorrow, you’ll have to sign into the building in the morning by scanning your card here. I expect they’ll get you one made up today.”
She points to a machine that sits at about waist height. It’s fixed into the ground with a pole. Helpfully, someone comes along and taps their lanyard’s ID badge against it. The machine beeps, and all three of us walk five metres to the left toward the lifts.
“Morning,” the newcomer, a besuited thirty-something white guy, says to Miss Trunchbull. His eyes rake over me and momentarily go wide.
“Morning, Andrew,” Miss Trunchbull says. She turns to me and scans her own lanyard on the lift panel. “The manager’s offices are on the fifth floor, which is where I expect you’ll be, but I need to take you up to the sixth to see Amy on reception.”
I nod, and the lift doors ping open. All three of us step inside. I fix my hair and the lapels of my jacket in the mirror and pointedly ignore the way Andrew and Miss Trunchbull share loaded glances. Has my father told these people about me? Has he prewarned them? Prepped them all to double up on their workload to compensate for my inadequacies?
Andrew steps out of the lift on floor two, lazy bastard, and Miss Trunchbull turns to me. “Do you know what you’ll be doing?”
“Not an iota.”
She laughs. “This your first job?”
“Yeah,” I say, and her face does that thing I’ve seen a thousand faces do before. Her eyebrows pull down into a frown before lifting into an almost perfect McDonald’s arch. It’s an expression that reads,“Must be nice to be the CEO’s son and have everything fall into your lap.”
If only she—and everyone else—knew the truth.
“Do you enjoy working for Oakham Exports?” I say, because the lift is moving at a painfully slow speed and I’m starting to feel suffocated by the silence.
“Oh, I don’t work for Oakham.” She shows me her badge. Her actual name is Lyndda with a Y and two Ds. Then my eye catches on the company logo and my stomach somersaults at the business name printed in the centre. “I actually work for Ellis Security. Oakham outsources to us, but yeah, I really like it here.”
“That’s Donna Ellis’s firm, no?” I say.
“Wow. That’s . . . very impressive. You’ve clearly done your research.”
I don’t contradict her, don’t tell her the real reason I know is because I slept with the CEO’s son. Harry Ellis’s mum owns the firm that protects the company my father owns. What a weird, stomach-knotting turn of events.
The red LED number switches from five to six, and the lift slows then stops.
“You’re a lot different than I expected you to be. I think you’ll do great here,” Miss Trunchbull—I mean Lyndda says. The doors open, and she steps just far enough out to block the sensor, stopping them from closing prematurely. “This is you. Good luck, though I know you’ll be fine.”
I step out of the lift into the middle of the reception area, and before I have a chance to say anything else to Lyndda, another woman practically pounces on top of me. She’s also white, with a wiggish blonde bob and oversized square plastic spectacles.
“Hi, Orlando. It’s so nice to finally meet you. I have heard so much about you already. My name is Amy James. I’m your father’s PA at the Swindon branch, and I’ll be helping you adjust today.”
I immediately don’t like her for no other reason than vibes. Her polyester office-attire dress is riding up around her middle, her pleather ballet flats are frankly abhorrent, her cheap pop-star branded perfume is an affront to the many gifts of nature, and that saccharine false smile she’s slapped onto her face isn’t helping her cause.
